


Steel on Stone

by AsperJasper



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Matt/Foggy - Freeform, Matthew Murderdock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 10:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30121170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsperJasper/pseuds/AsperJasper
Summary: Fisk almost didn’t see the man sitting on the floor in front of the massive chair. He wasn’t making himself the center of attention, wasn’t trying to get Fisk’s attention in any way, didn’t even seem to react to Fisk’s entrance into the room. He was just sitting cross-legged, ramrod straight, a naked sword laid across his lap."Hello, Wilson," he said quietly. A rasping, grating sound filled the space and Fisk watched the sword move slowly, drawing across an object he was almost too far away to tell was a whetstone."Mr. Murdock, I presume."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Steel on Stone

The building was far quieter than Fisk expected from what he’d been told.

A nice enough building, offices on the bottom floors and apartments on the top, it stood out from the buildings around it on an otherwise unremarkable Hell’s Kitchen block. If he didn’t know the reasons he had for coming here, he might not have thought anything of the almost eerily quiet atmosphere. As it stood, it didn’t feel right.

There should have been somebody here. If not in the lobby he entered through, then surely somebody should have stopped him as he entered the residential area of the building.

The offices were nice enough for Hell’s Kitchen real estate these days. Clean, certainly, and well fit with all the most modern amenities. It struck him as odd, in fact, that the building hadn’t been locked. Even if the rest of the rooms were, enough was accessible just through the front door that a thief could have made out quite well.

But he continued entirely unhampered, even when he called the private elevator that only ran from the twentieth to the twenty-first floor.

That was where he was told he would find the people he needed to talk to. The penthouse suite, home to distract attorney Foggy Nelson and his husband, Matthew Murdock. A seemingly unassuming couple who’d done so well for themselves in their legal careers that they could afford this penthouse. Murdock owned the building, in fact, through his defense firm that was quite well known among the wealthy criminals of New York.

Of course, most of those wealthy criminals also knew that no defense attorney started his own firm and was quite so successful through only his court presence, no matter how impressive that court presence might be, and no clean district attorney would be one to marry the sort that Murdock most certainly was. Most of Murdock's clients were likely well aware that the couple who inhabited this penthouse had their fingers dipped into every criminal enterprise currently growing roots in Hell’s Kitchen. A monopoly on them, in fact.

Nelson and Murdock had a vice grip on the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen. Not in a way that stopped them from operating, in a way that allowed them to reap the benefits as much as they wanted, and Fisk was here looking to get in on it.

The rest of New York might as well have been his. There were other people entangled in his businesses, of course, nobody got anywhere without an appropriate network, but they answered to Fisk, whether they realized it or not.

Hell’s Kitchen, though, Hell’s Kitchen was in its own little bubble. Completely untouchable, impenetrable, twenty square blocks where nothing Fisk did seemed to matter.

Quite the opposite, in fact, no matter who he sent or what they tried, every man either came back looking like they’d been mauled by a cat or never came back at all.

This penthouse apartment was nearly silent. The hum of electronics was a quiet constant in the background, the ticks and clicks of an operational building sounding almost overly loud against the dullness of everything else.

The room at the end of the hall was likely meant to be a dining room, the main feature of this lower level of the penthouse. The longest wall was entirely windows, a beautiful view of the Manhattan skyline becoming the backdrop. If a dinner table had been set up, it would have the type of room that anybody would be proud to host a dinner party in.

Instead of a table, though, the room was left almost entirely empty. The door from the hallway opened at one end, leaving whoever walked in to look down the long, narrow, room at the sole piece of furniture in the room, a big, ornate chair big enough for at least two people to sit in comfortably. 

When Fisk pushed the door open, the throne was empty.

The throne was empty, but the room was not.

Fisk almost didn’t see the man sitting on the floor in front of the massive chair. He wasn’t making himself the center of attention, wasn’t trying to get Fisk’s attention in any way, didn’t even seem to react to Fisk’s entrance into the room. He was just sitting cross-legged, ramrod straight, a naked sword laid across his lap.

"Hello, Wilson," he said quietly. A rasping, grating sound filled the space and Fisk watched the sword move slowly, drawing across an object he was almost too far away to tell was a whetstone.

"Mr. Murdock, I presume."

"Mm." The sword passed across the stone again. "You don’t presume. You’ve been watching. For months."

He sounded completely calm, completely unfazed. Fisk could match that.

"One doesn’t get to where I am today without learning proper preparation," Fisk said, moving closer across the room.

"That’s true." Another scrape against the stone. Fisk wondered if this was a threat, or if he’d just caught Murdock off-guard.

Somehow, he doubted it was the latter.

"I suppose you know why I’m here, then?"

"Of course I do, Wilson. One doesn’t get to where I am today without learning proper preparation." His mouth quirked up in a frankly infuriating smirk.

Fisk couldn’t see his eyes through the dark red glasses he was wearing. The edges of scars showed just past the rims, evidence of the chemical burns that blinded him as a child, and he was barefoot. His shirt was partially undone, another scar just barely peeking through under the collar, and all together, Matthew Murdock was a very carefully constructed picture of ease. Relaxation. Not a hint of danger, other than the sword he continued to slowly run over the stone.

Fisk wasn’t fooled.

He hadn’t just been watching, he’d been listening. Matthew Murdock may have been one of the masterminds behind pretty much all of the criminal activity of Hell’s Kitchen. He may have been married to the other. He may have had meetings with everybody who was anybody in the underworld of New York City, and he may have had a reputation as a smooth-talking lawyer with more tricks up his sleeve than most, but he was much more than an organizer.

The sword hissed across the stone again, and Fisk knew that if he wanted to, Matthew Murdock had more than decent a chance of killing Fisk there and then.

"Then I won’t waste either of our time with an explanation. What is your answer?"

Murdock grinned, the expression splitting his face and making him look like a nightmare from under the bed in how unnatural it looked, how obvious the malice behind it was.

"Why, Wilson, we would be simply honored to work with you." Before Fisk had even a moment to feel victorious, the sword scraped the stone again and Murdock was already speaking again. "Of course, with some stipulations."

"Negotiations are to be-"

"No, you misunderstand." Murdock stood up, ran his finger down the edge of the blade, and slid it into the body of a cane that had been resting at his side. For the first time, Fisk noticed the small pile of seemingly bloody rags next to the sharpening stone. "We don’t negotiate. We own Hell’s Kitchen, you want in, you meet our stipulations or we keep you out. It’s very simple."

"I have-"

"Many things to bring to the table, a vast network of connections, more experience than me, blah, blah, blah, I’ve heard it all before, Wilson. Nothing you could possibly say will surprise me, which you know but don’t believe, and nothing you could possibly say will change my mind. Or the mind of my husband, whom I know you believe to be the easier to deal with of the pair of us. Trust me, that assumption is very much mistaken. I would go so far as to say that you’re lucky Foggy is busy tonight." Murdock’s grin widened. He hopped up on the chair behind him and lounged across it.

This was clearly a display of power. Murdock was proving how above Fisk he was, how in control he was, that he didn’t even need to remain standing to keep the upper hand. With most people, Fisk would not have tolerated such a display.

With Murdock, he made himself grit his teeth and bear it. 

"All of the things you mentioned, Mr. Murdock, are true."

"Are they? From my count, you don’t have all that much to bring to the table. Your connections are worthless, as none of them touch anything we would need other than the ones we already stole right from under your nose without your noticing. You may be older than me, but believe me when I say I have known the ins and outs of our particular business longer than you could imagine. Although, your first death may beat me. How old were you, when you killed your father? Twelve?"

Fisk's hands twitched at his sides with the urge to make Murdock regret daring to open his mouth, and Murdock’s grin only got impossibly bigger.

"What…would your stipulations…be?" Fisk forced himself to ask.

"Oh, they’re very simple. In fact, there’s really only one."

But he didn’t continue. He let the silence stretch out, let the tension build, all the while grinning like a lunatic in his strangely menacing way.

"Did you know that swords can’t be sharpened to too fine an edge?" Is what he finally said to break the silence what felt like hours later.

"Excuse me?"

"No, if you want a sword to be effective as a weapon, and not just impressive for displays of precision, the edge needs to maintain a very careful balance. Sharp, of course, but not too thin." Murdock gracefully revealed the sword he’d hidden inside his cane, again running his finger down the blade. "A sharp, thin edge can do many impressive things. Slice a single hair, a piece of paper, just being dropped on it. But a sword needs a broader edge because a thin edge will slice through the flesh and get stuck on the bone, damaging the blade as a whole."

"I’m afraid I-"

"With a broad enough edge, that problem is avoided. The leverage of the blade can follow through the slice of the edge, and break through the bone almost as easily as the flesh." The blade flicked out towards Fisk far faster than he could hope to dodge, stopping with incredible precision under his chin, just barely touching his skin. Murdock hadn’t even bothered to sit up straight. "With experience, an edge like this is easy to create and easy to maintain. I’ve been sharpening my own blades since I was a child, Wilson, and I’m very good at it. My sword slices through flesh and bone without pause. Do you think you could say the same?"

"Is that a threat, Mr. Murdock?"

"Not at all. Simply a question."

"A metaphor, perhaps?"

"A metaphor? Whatever for?" Murdock dropped his unnerving grin in favor of an over-exaggerated perplexed look, dropping his sword back down into his lap.

"Perhaps we should just continue with business."

"Of course. As I said, what we ask is very simple. One single requirement to be fulfilled, and you can come and go as you please in Hell’s Kitchen. Our enterprises have no reason to clash, after all, this isn’t the wild west. There very much is room for the both of us in this town."

"So what is it?" Fisk asked, his frustration growing almost impossible to hide.

"Why, Wilson, all you need to do is end all association, immediately and entirely, with the organization that calls themselves the Hand."

Fisk almost laughed out loud.

"I’m afraid you must have received some incorrect information, Mr. Murdock. I already have no association with any organization called the Hand."

"Gao. Nobu. I doubt Murakami has shown himself, and I doubt you’ve realized Nobu isn’t his own man, just as I doubt you’ve realized that Gao and Nobu work together. Your little group, all banded together under your shell corporations such as Union Allied, will be disbanded immediately and never resumed. Of course, we don’t care a bit what you do with the Russians, or dear old Leland. They’re harmless enough under your…watchful eye. But Gao and Nobu, you see, are part of the Hand. And the Hand will not be tolerated." Murdock’s tone never shifted from the light, casual way he’d been speaking the entire time. He’d re-sheathed his sword, was still reclined in his seat, but the underlying meaning was very clear.

"Gao is a harmless old woman and Nobu a businessman. Personal vendettas have no place in the dealings of our type of work."

"I disagree," Murdock said, all sweet venom and feigned casualness. "In our line of work, personal vendettas inform everything we do. And unfortunately, Wilson, I must admit I was wrong about you if you truly believe what you just said. Gao is far from harmless, and Nobu far from a simple businessman. Perhaps you’re less…sharp than I was led to believe. If you’re unwilling to meet this simple, simple requirement, unfortunately, Foggy and I will be unable to extend our friendship and partnership your way, and Hell’s Kitchen will remain out of your reach."

Fisk drew in a careful breath.

He’d been told that Nelson and Murdock were tough nuts to crack, and he’d known it would be accurate. It was true, after all, that in order to get as high as they had, a certain amount of stubbornness was required

"I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Murdock, why my business outside of Hell’s Kitchen should in any way affect our relationship. There’s no need for you to work with Gao or Nobu if you don’t wish it."

"Mm." Again, Murdock let the tense silence drag on for far longer than felt necessary. "You’re an impressive man, Wilson, with many impressive accomplishments. This conversation has left me wondering, however…how little you understand. To not even pay enough attention to reach the right conclusions on your own…" Murdock clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "They’re using you, Wilson. The Hand is an organization of leeches, latching onto anybody with anything to offer and sucking away until there’s nothing left. They will use you to get what they want and betray you without a second thought as soon as it benefits them, and they will worm their way into your every operation, sending people you don’t even know work for them to take their places as your confidants, your most trusted right-hand men, and they will control you without ever breaking your illusion of command." Murdock stretched like a cat, arching his back and flexing every muscle in his body. "I have more experience than you could possibly know in working with the Hand. They are parasites. They will not be allowed anywhere near my city, and we will not do business with anybody who would carry them here."

"You don’t think that I’m capable of handling myself? I made it all this way to speak to you, and-"

"Don’t flatter yourself, Wilson," Murdock said, very quietly and with a new edge to his voice. "You walked into an empty building and took a straight path to speak to me because I allowed it to happen. If I had wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it past 34th street. If I had wanted to kill you myself, you wouldn’t have made it past the first set of doors. There is nobody, not a single person, in Hell’s Kitchen that Foggy and I don’t know about and approve of, as you should know. Look at the men you’ve lost trying to sneak in behind our backs."

"Your doors closed so tightly may very well be your downfall, you know."

"Not at all, Wilson. You once again show your misunderstanding of how Foggy and I operate. It isn’t about keeping the doors closed, it’s about monitoring who passes through. End your association with the Hand, and we’ll welcome you with open arms. Invite you to dinner, even. Just one little adjustment."

"You act as if it isn’t a choice that affects me at all."

"Ask yourself, Wilson, who you would rather have as your enemy? Those you currently call your friends, or my husband and me?" Murdock paused, smirked, seemed to take everything about Fisk in again. "And before you make your choice, think very hard, because you haven’t noticed the most important detail yet."

"And that would be?"

"Why, the fact that Hand is scared of me, of course. You’ve been thinking about what you know of Gao and Nobu, what you think they’re capable of, and you know that I’m telling the truth. So _think_ Wilson. Why haven’t they touched Hell’s Kitchen on their own, why are they making you do the work for them? Because they fear me," Murdock didn’t let Fisk answer. "They know who I am, they know what I am capable of, and they know better than to test me. They know better than to test my husband. So I ask again, who would you rather have as your enemy? The ones too cowardly to confront me themselves, or the one they’re scared of?"

"You’re threatening me."

"I am." Murdock’s grin reappeared on his face, and he slowly sat up straight. "This was your free pass, your day in the sun in Hell’s Kitchen. I let you approach, and made our terms very clear. I’m advising you to make your choice very, very carefully, because continuing to try and find ways around us will only lead to more loss for you."

Again, Fisk inhaled slowly. A loss of control in this situation could prove deadly, and not only to his business prospects in Hell’s Kitchen.

"I don’t take threats lightly."

"Nor should you." Murdock shrugged. "Especially coming from me, Wilson, I mean every word. You don’t have to give your answer now, but if you aren’t, it’s time for you to leave."

"How…hospitable of you."

"Hell’s Kitchen isn’t hospitable to you, Wilson. You’re a bleeding fish in an ocean full of sharks, and we’re very hungry."

Slowly, Fisk made himself turn around and walk out of the room, listening carefully for the sound of a sword being drawn. He didn’t plan on getting stabbed in the back tonight.

When he reached the door, a sudden sound made him jerk to the side, turning to look back at Murdock right as a knife thudded into the door, barely an inch from his hand on the knob. Murdock laughed.

Fisk had heard a great many things in his time, and known a great many people who could be considered evil.

Nothing had ever sent a shiver down his spine the way that laugh did.

When he closed the door behind him, he could hear Murdock whistling to himself behind it. The silence of the building now seemed to sink into his skin and make him nervous, an uncommon and unwelcome feeling. Fisk was used to control. He was used to knowing where he stood and what came next.

Murdock was very good at throwing people off balance, it seemed.

And Fisk had no idea what to do next.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you think of an au and get really attached to it and then you think but what if i changed one thing about the au and then you end up with an au of your own au that you're equally attached to.
> 
> anyway here's an au of Rumspringa Matt where instead of Foggy dragging Matt to a (more) legal lifestyle, he joins Matt in creating their own criminal empire in Hell's Kitchen. Murderdock is just. So incredibly fun to write he's such an evil bastard and I'm just in love with him sjhgsjhgfs.
> 
> As always, hi I'm Asper, I have a [Tumblr](https://matt-murdok.tumblr.com), and I love Matt Murdock so much it's not even funny anymore. Comments are much appreciated (but obviously I can't force people too leave them lmao). Thanks so much for reading! <3


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